I hastily push the trolley with 100 waterproof sheets (2 packs of 50), 4 pillowcases (yes,
that’s all that arrived this time), a bag of toothpaste tubes and two more cartons of kitchen
supplies. I hurry down the corridor, since here, during the hospital experiment period, I keep
receiving different tasks, which-after the silence of the novitiate house-whisper pleasantly,
“you are useful!”
As I run, suddenly someone calls from one of the rooms:
– But I have important work to do! – I say to myself – I have work to do, I have the 100
waterproof sheets (those packs of 50), 4 pillowcases (the ones that arrived), the bag of
toothpaste tubes, and…
– Benny! – Same voice, concealing a 90-year life story: made of storms and sunshine.
– I don’t have time now! – I always say to myself, but I feel my heart sinking: Because who
has time but me? Me, who left “my home, my country, my brothers, my parents”?
Well, I stop the trolley, with the 100 waterproof sheets and all the other little things I carry
with me. I put on the brakes. I enter the room. I crouch down, start listening to that trembling
voice, which is hard to understand, but encapsulates 90 years of life: parents and village,
shelter and bombs, husband and job, desires and poverty, wounds and failures. Everything.
And the joy of finally having someone who listens.
(cf Lk 10,30-35; Lk 18,29)